Page 31 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva

I don’t answer. I can’t.

His fingers drag through me again, then press in—one at first, then two. I cry out, biting down on the inside of my lip to keep from screaming. He stretches me, works me open like he’s preparing me for something he knows I’m not ready for.

“You’ve never been fucked before?” he demands, his voice a rough scrape of pride and possession.

“No.”

He grins, wolfish. “Good. I want to be the only one you remember. The only one you ever think about, after this.”

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. His fingers move, slow at first, then deeper, curving in a way that makes my body light up with unfamiliar heat. His thumb finds the sensitive spot at the top and rubs slow circles, coaxing reactions I don’t want to give him.

I give them anyway. My hips lift, my mouth opens.

He watches me. Even as he touches me, even as my legs tremble, Kion never stops looking—like he’s learning every inch of me by the way I fall apart.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “You’re soaked, all because of me. You like it, hmm?”

I hate how much I do.

He pulls his fingers free and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean. I watch, dazed. My thighs are slick and shaking.

Then I feel him press against me—hot, hard, thick. His cock pulses, stretches me so impossibly wide I can hardly think.

He leans down, bracing one hand beside my head. His mouth brushes my ear. “This is going to hurt.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens in my hair, laughter brushing against my ear. He enjoys it, I think, making me squirm. “Good girl.”

He pushes in, slow and brutal.

The stretch burns. I cry out. My fingers claw at the sheets, gripping hard as he buries himself inch by inch. He’s too big, too deep, and my body fights it. He waits a second, breathing hard above me.

Then he moves.

The rhythm starts heavy, slow thrusts that build quickly. His hips slam into mine, forcing my legs wider, forcing my body to take him. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I cling to his shoulders as he fucks me hard, his mouth at my throat, his voice dark against my skin.

“You’re perfect,” he growls. “So hot for me.”

Each word drives into me as hard as his cock does.

I don’t mean to moan. I don’t mean to cry out his name either, but I do. Over and over.

My body clenches around him, tighter with each thrust. The heat builds until I’m unraveling, the orgasm hitting hard and fast. I shudder beneath him, nails dragging down his back, lips parting in a broken sob.

He follows.

He presses deep, groaning low as he spills inside me. I feel the heat of it, the pulse of him still buried deep, the weight of his body holding me to the bed like a brand.

When he finally pulls back, he looks down at me; eyes blazing, possessive.

“What a perfect, good girl.”

I can’t speak, but my body says it for me.

We lie there for a while, tangled in heat and silence.

My body still throbs, stretched and slick from what he’s already taken. The air between us is thick with sweat and something darker. Possession. My legs shake faintly where they rest beside his hips, and I can feel the echo of him deep inside me, pulsing like an aftershock. His hand moves lazily over my thigh, palm warm, fingers trailing marks only I will feel tomorrow.